


From the Mouths of the Dalish

by bronsautracks



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dirty Talk, I have No Excuse, M/M, Rivalmance, Romance, Slow Burn, TAKING LIBERTIES BECAUSE I AM A FREE ELF DAMMIT, all of the angst, because solas, elves like to pick on cassandra, is this thing even lit?, magic kink, so this happened, solas why, taking liberties with dialogue, taking liberties with elvish language, taking liberties with inquisitor backstory, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronsautracks/pseuds/bronsautracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas has heard his share of Dalish swearing and has learned to take it in stride, but with the fade spilling out over Thedas and the world on the brink of destruction, he really has lost all patience for Kirin’s particular brand of blasphemy. And even when his foul mouth isn't running away with him, he's just a prime example of the savagery the hedge mage detests, plus the arrogance of someone who has greedily swallowed the lies they call their history his whole life, and refuses to accept a defeat through words or on the battlefield, proved wrong or outmatched. He’ll stubbornly press on or die trying. Solas really can’t deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this is just sort of a warm-up/tester for me. my first post on this site and i'd like to continue it, but i'm a little self-conscious about the whole idea and how it has no real direction other than you know, lavellan's dick-compass at this point so anyways.. here it is. lavellan has flexible sexuality here, but this will be solas-oriented. hope you guys like. major game spoilers in like the second paragraph, so there's that. uhm. yeah. c:

**Chapter 1**

Solas heard it the first time, on their first meeting. Well, the first meeting where Lavellan was entirely conscious, anyway. Solas didn’t like to think much on the half-waking nightmares that would cause him to thrash about and scream in Elven and sometimes in no real words in any language. He would tear blindly at the apostate who was trying to sooth him and soon, but never soon enough to save Solas from a few red welts from the boy’s nails across his chest or his brow, he would calm, fall back into his slumber.  
  
Upon closing that first rift, with a small amount of urging from Solas, the boy, Kirin, he had called himself, muttered softly so that the older elf could barely catch it, a curse that he had never heard. Not phrased so colorfully. Or at all really.  
  
“By the Dread Wolf’s sweaty nutsack, what have I gotten myself into?” he had wondered, looking helplessly at the mark on his hand.  
  
 _Unlikely._  
  
It was what crossed his mind as he squinted his eyes against the icy wind.  
  
When it registered fully, Solas found the need to hide a sudden mirth, though he could not entirely. The corner of his mouth twitched upward slightly. Of all the parts to invoke in vain. He felt a mad hilarity and then a little offended. Also it was just so untrue. If anything it was shrinking up into him from the cold, though that one did come up much later, when Solas’ armor of serenity was on the verge of shattering.  
  
A story for another time.  
  
This time, he was simply intrigued. Had yet to learn anything about the soon to be Herald of Andraste, but was entirely too keen to.  
  
However, in the commotion after stabilizing the breach, there was very little opportunity to interact with Kirin Lavellan at all, and it wasn’t until much later, perhaps a week and a half, that the Herald approached him, clad in his new, custom armor, stubbornly barefoot as Dalish were wont to be, and this to Cassandra’s endless irritation, Solas knew.  
  
“The Chosen of Andraste,” he greeted, “blessed hero come to save us all.”  
  
Lavellan’s mood was somewhat foul and he tensed at the title before trudging closer and asking good-naturedly, “Am I riding in on a shining steed?”  
  
Solas relaxed a bit after that, relieved not to be treated as derisively by this elf, as he was used to.  
  
“I’m not their Herald. Told them as much.”  
  
"Yes, well. Posturing is necessary, whatever you might say. We all have a common goal," Solas offered neutrally.  
  
A moment of silence passed between the two, while Lavellan rocked on the balls of his feet, fidgeting apprehensively.  
  
“Is there something you need?” Solas asked, since the other elf was clearly struggling.  
  
Lavellan stood up a little straighter, not quite matching Solas in height even then.  
  
“I’ve been asked to speak with a Chantry mother in the Hinterlands,” he explained seriously, but his front fizzled out quickly and he decided to just ask Solas earnestly, “I appreciate what you’ve done for me already, Hahren, and do not want to seem ungrateful by asking favors so soon after, that is, before I have repaid you.”  
  
Solas smiled at the term of respect, knowing the direction this was going, but letting Kirin say it without interruption.  
  
“I am yet unused to the company of humans, and your magical knowledge and skills far surpass mine. I had hoped you would accompany me on this journey.”  
  
“Yes, and I suppose a few others if you’ll have me,” Solas answered, curiosity peaking as he wondered why this elf appeared to be making such an effort not to offend. When talking to Varric he was borderline vulgar and with Cassandra, abrasive and antagonistic. Strangely silent around Solas.  
  
Lavellan nodded curtly, dislodging bits of snow from his tar-black hair.  
  
“You were a hedge mage before this?” Kirin questioned.  
  
Solas bristled at the prying into his past, however harmless the question. “Why?”  
  
“I know little about you,” Kirin stated, “If it would make you more comfortable, you could also ask something of me..”  
  
“It would not, but yes. I was. Hope to be again, though I’m staying for now.”  
  
“You think you would be held here, after?”  
  
A spark of amusement lit Solas’ eyes as he said, “Mages are dangerous when free, and I do not have the luxury of a divine mark to protect me when I am no longer of use here.”  
  
“I could always use you!” Kirin blurted, earning himself a pair of raised eyebrows. He hurried to correct himself, “What I meant was that there will never be reason for them to send you off to some tower. My presence guarantees your freedom, lethallin.”  
  
“Your easy familiarity betrays your age, Da’len.” Solas regarded him seriously before continuing, “As does your naivety.”  
  
“Ir abelas, Hahren,” he offered quietly, with the strained tones of talking through a clenched jaw, “I only meant that I would die before I see one of the people captured. Imprisoned.” He snarled looking down at the ground, “These shems are the same as they’ve always been. It sickens me to run around doing their work.. but if it will save everyone..”  
  
“Yes,” Solas agreed, “Your options are limited, as are mine. Of course I will go with you. I’m glad to be of aid to you.”  
  
“Thank you,” Lavellan breathed, looking strangely up at Solas. The expression wasn’t readable and when the smaller elf’s lips parted Solas glanced at the markings there and on his chin. Silvery white and gleaming on tan skin in the dusklight. Solas’ unchecked study was abruptly interrupted by a swear from Kirin. The second time, and more unnerving than humorous.  
  
“Dread wolf, strike me down,” he sighed, “I’ve been spending too much time with the kitchen girls.”  
  
“I don’t see what that has to do with inviting a god to smite you,” he responded with a small smile. One he didn’t feel. It grew a little though as he wondered, “Though I thought you mentioned a certain unease in human company. I suppose these kitchen girls must go through great pains to soothe your nerves.”  
  
The air around Kirin felt as if it was radiating warmth, and Solas chuckled.  
  
“You should work on separating your feelings from your magic,” he told him, raising his hands and warming them in Kirin’s space idly, noting that the subtle invasion didn’t seem to faze him much. “You’re like a small campfire. It makes you far less intimidating.”  
  
“And what’s so scary about a solitary mage who sleeps all day?” Kirin snapped.  
  
Solas didn’t answer for a moment. Darkness was taking the sky rapidly and he studied what stars he could already see.  
  
“On that note,” he finally said, “I believe I shall retire. Until tomorrow, Da’len.” He turned and entered his small quarters, not waiting for the Herald’s response. When he lay down, preparing to enter his dreams, he heard the quiet, reluctant answer.  
  
“Sleep well, Hahren."  
  
The soft footfalls led away through crunchy snow, and Solas followed the sound into the Fade.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first members of the inquisition learn to get along, or angsty dalish elf is angsty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: so i'm trying. i really am. look! a second chapter! maybe i'm not a lost cause after all.. also i tagged this at the beginning to match what scenes i had written so far. i only just realized that those tags didn't accurately describe the contents of the fic in its entirety, so i've adjusted them, because while there will be smut, it hasn't happened yet and it will be preceded by a lot of this..

**Chapter 2**

Perhaps it was because Solas was the only other mage with them at the time, but none of the others seemed to notice Lavellan’s intermittent lapses in control. Or perhaps it only happened around Solas.. 

An intriguing notion to be set aside for further analysis after a bit of research.

Admittedly, research became more of a cruel game as time went on. Something he would have delighted in during his younger years, but he now found only mildly entertaining and, he assured himself, eventually enlightening.

Throughout their stay in the Hinterlands, prolonged by the Herald’s fathomless lust for adventure, Solas was astounded by the elf’s tireless wandering. The sky would grow dark and still he would press on, dragging them in his green, glowing wake, until Cassandra threatened to put his lights out. It went on in this way for days, such that, it took them three weeks to actually meet up with Mother Giselle. And they all knew it could only get worse from there.

“Val Royeaux my naked, Dalish foot!” Lavellan almost shouted, kicking up dirt beside a recently dead Templar who had yet to be dragged off. “Fen’harel shit on my corpse before I parlay with those Chantry zealots.”

Solas and Cassandra bore identical looks of scandal at that, and Varric barked out a laugh.

“What has your britches in a bunch, Chuckles?” he asked through his fading mirth.

Solas simply scoffed and let his eyes wander over Lavellan’s vallaslin, as they tended to of their own volition. He didn’t know where to begin and frankly thought it wiser not to respond at all, instead allowing Cassandra to berate the Dalish mage, as was custom.

“The Chantry are not zealots, you-” she stopped the insult midway and continued, “That is, your role in this is diplomacy whether you like it or not. You will need to behave civilly and cease acting like a spoilt child if you wish to accomplish your task.”

Kirin’s face was all fire and rage and Solas was sure Cassandra would feel the heat from the magical connection he couldn’t seem to sever. But she showed no sign of fear. Perhaps her Seeker abilities gave her that confidence. 

“I didn’t ask for this!” he raised his marked hand, closed into a fist and still flashing brilliantly green. Solas then noticed, with an inward wince, that Kirin’s blood writing also covered his hands. He caught the Herald’s wrist as it came down and examined it. 

“You sat through all this?” 

The change of subject and unexplained look of deep sorrow on the apostate’s face had a calming effect on Lavellan, and the heat dissipated. Solas brought the marked hand close to his face for further inspection, and Kirin said quietly, “Stood.”

Solas looked up at him abruptly, searching his face, prompting for explanation.

Before Solas could confirm his suspicion, Cassandra stormed off towards the woods, where they had mapped out a clearing to make camp, and Varric called after her, “Where’s the fire, Seeker?” before pulling Bianca out with a dramatic sigh and following.

“Stood, why?” Solas needled, completely aware that his grip on the elf’s palm was making him uncomfortable. Lavellan tugged, the hold tightened.

Eyes wide as a halla in the torchlight, he replied cautiously as though he knew the answer would be an unwelcome one, “Be hard to reach everywhere if I was sitting..”

“Everywhere?”

And at this Kirin smiled, picked up one bare foot to show him the unmarred bottom. 

“Almost.”

Solas dropped his hand in disgust, turning away to follow the other two.

“Fenhedis,” he swore, “I had forgotten for a moment what savages you all are.” He felt Lavellan’s hurt from behind him. Something he didn’t want to think on, but the youth recovered from the sting of the common insult quickly and fell into step just behind Solas. 

“I didn’t make a sound.”

“As if that would make some modicum of difference to me,” he quipped, exasperated by his ignorance and annoyed by the bragging.

Back at camp, already half set up by the time they arrived, the Herald surprised everyone by apologizing to Cassandra.

“I will go,” he told her, sitting next to her on the log made bench by their backsides, one heavy hand resting on her armored shoulder. “But I will need time to reconcile with myself and my Creators, before I approach the Chantry to ally with them.”

“Your Creators haven’t heard you for a long while. You might consider cutting that time in half,” Solas commented absently from his seat in the dirt by the flames, biting into some strange, Ferelden fruit that Lavellan had refused to try. It was dark purple and full of slimy seeds, coated in the crimson insides. If he was being honest, it was reminiscent of gore and made him squeamish. Seeing Solas smirk around it as though he knew this was even more unsettling.

“Let him be, Solas,” Cassandra warned, eager to protect what little solidarity their motley crew could maintain. 

Varric was boiling a stew over the fire and humming to himself. He had tried to lighten the mood a few times before, but Lavellan knew that the rift between himself and the others would not fix itself. He would have to seal it like all the rest.

“Hmm..” the dwarf started as he portioned out a bowl of steaming stew for himself and sat back, allowing his companions to serve themselves. “I just can’t decide..” 

He was looking ponderously at Lavellan, mulling him over has he savored his first mouthful of the broth. Most times, this would feel homey to Kirin, camped out by a fire in the woods. Not a sound but the owls in the trees and the distant howl of a wolf. But the soft orange light of the fire was tainted by Kirin’s very presence; his mark plunged all into a sickly sea of green, as much as the Breach itself.

“Can’t decide what?” Cassandra asked suspiciously, the first to take his bait.

“Cheeks or Scrappy?”

“Cheeks?!” Lavellan squeaked out, face going red, nearly spilling the bowl Solas had just handed him all over his lap. The fire crackled and sparked and Solas could almost blame it for the subtle increase in temperature. Almost. The Herald composed himself and said, with his usual gruffness, “Neither.”

“Would you prefer Thunderbuns?”

Kirin paled and brought his bowl to his mouth to avoid responding altogether.

“No? How about Lightning Lips?” Varric puckered his lips and Cassandra slammed a gauntleted hand down on the log, with a resounding crack that gave everyone pause.

“Enough,” she said in that unyielding tone she so often used.

After a moment of stunned silence and quiet slurping, Varric could only grin wickedly, an action that promised he was not done.

“So, Scrappy it is then!”

Solas laughed in whispers, Cassandra groaned into her palm, and Kirin sipped at his stew, grateful for the small sense of comradery, if slightly embarrassed it was bought at his expense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> horray for varric! and eating soup without spoons! and not editing because i have work in the morning but if i don't post it now i probably never will! hope you liked it anyway!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra drags Lavellan's stubborn ass to Val Royeaux and he does all the things you shouldn't do in front of Templars, in a city ruled by the Chantry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should warn you guys. Mild violence in this chapter, and like the barest minimum of gore. Because Scrappy.

Val Royeaux was nothing like Kirin had expected. In a very bad way.  
  
If he thought he had garnered some level of respect from the Chantry by stabilizing the Breach, he was sorely mistaken. Luckily, Cassandra was there to keep him from dealing out more damage to their cause by mauling the Revered Mother.  
  
The Templars handled that well enough anyways. A gauntlet-clad fist collided with the back of her head, sending her crashing to the ground. Only one of their number spoke against this treatment and was quieted immediately.  
  
Shocked into forgetting the offense he took at her earlier preaching, he found himself outraged, staff coming round and glowing that crackling white-lilac of electricity, which appeared to be his preferred element, menacingly enough to cause the nobles to scatter. Varric reached for Bianca and Solas’ own hand hovered, ready to arm himself as well. The Herald had that effect on people. His hackles raised and so did yours.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted with a scowl, Cassandra’s iron grip on his wrist, building up to dispel his magic if necessary.  
  
“Calm yourself, Lavellan,” she warned, “I would speak with him before you go shattering alliances.”  
  
He tensed considerably at her condescending tone, which Solas suspected would not be helpful to the situation.  
  
He sighed and did what Cassandra had been threatening since she reached out to stop Kirin’s attack, feeling only the smallest bit of guilt and apprehension as he did so.  
  
Lavellan’s light went out instantly. The air around him stilled.  
  
He rounded on Cassandra, eyes wide and livid. “Did you just-?!” She released him instantly, frown deepening, but seemed to have no desire to defend herself. She only nodded her thanks to Solas and turned to beseech the Lord Seeker.  
  
Solas suspected that the ground would be melting out from under Lavellan if his magic wasn’t temporarily blocked. The thought brought the smallest hint of a smile to his lips.  
  
A growl was their only warning that Lavellan’s rage had returned to its original purpose. Luckily he had not the physical prowess to attack them with force, so it was with words. He voice echoed around the square, fury in every syllable. Righteous fury.  
  
“Templars!” he called over Cassandra’s affronted argument with the Lord Seeker. “One of your own runs the Inquisition forces! One who would not see a Chantry Mother abused this way. Join as he did! Only a coward would raise his fist to an unarmed woman.”  
  
“Like you wouldn’t have hit her if Cassandra wasn’t here..” Varric muttered.  
  
Lavellan continued as though he hadn’t heard; the only sign that he had was the reddening at the tips of his pointed ears, “Is this the man you would follow? You would abandon your duties to the Chantry over—”  
  
“That’s quite enough!” the Lord Seeker addressed Kirin directly for the first time. “The people of Haven and their pathetic Inquisition have set you upon your pedestal, but there is one thing on which the Revered Mother and I agree.” He paused here, hand falling to the hilt of his blade in a daunting caress. “You are a false prophet, and your words mean nothing here.”  
  
He signaled his men as he walked away and they followed, only a scant few glancing back in hesitation.  
  
Their small party could only watch them depart, Cassandra seething as much as Kirin, even if she was more prudent about throwing tantrums in a crowded square. She watched as the Revered Mother was tended to, ignoring Kirin’s stormy attitude as they made their way around to the city gates.  
  
“Fucking Templars!” Kirin shouted, all but stamping his feet in frustration. “Fucking Chantry and stupid fucking—” he cut himself off abruptly, startling Solas when he stopped and pivoted to face him, “-and _you_.”  
  
While Lavellan knew better than to challenge a fully armed squadron of Templars, he seemed to hold no such reservations when it came to fully armed singular mages. He backed Solas up against a storefront window, palm flat against his chest and a knife seemingly from nowhere coming up to his throat.  
  
Solas let him, because he knew there was no real danger, while Lavellan’s wild magic lay dormant.  
  
Cassandra and Varric on the other hand, reacted with the alarm that most might consider appropriate for the situation. One had his crossbow aimed at the Herald, the other unsheathed her sword.  
  
“C’mon, I don’t want to use the last of my knock-out grenades on you,” Varric tried for a little humor, but his aim stayed true.  
  
“Shut up!” Kirin snarled. “This doesn’t concern you.”  
  
“Da’len,” Solas intoned, hands raising in silent surrender. “You already know. There is no need for this display.”  
  
“But there was need for yours? And don’t think I believe for a second it was the seeker.” he snapped, lowly. “I know _magic_ when I feel it.”  
  
“You were out of control,” Cassandra barked, picking up on the source of the sudden turn. “I would have done it if he hadn’t.” She lowered her sword slightly.  
  
The edge of Lavellan’s blade was sharp, well cared-for and it bit into the skin on Solas’ neck. He didn’t realize he was cut until the blood trickled down to his collarbone, pooling in the hollow there.  
  
The younger elf seemed to be calm enough for Solas to gently coax him into backing away, but as he made to speak he heard the faint whir of fletching soaring through the air.  
  
He kicked up Lavellan’s left foot in time to stop the arrow from pinning it to the ground. This had the unfortunate result of Lavellan losing his balance and toppling into the bushes to the side of them, knife dragging a searing line down and across Solas’ chest. He dropped down to his knees, clutching at the wound with a hiss.  
  
Kirin scrambled up in a rather undignified manner at the realization that the bush he had fallen in had caught fire of its own accord. Or, he thought, more likely his magic was back and he was still mad.  
  
Of course the commotion drew the attention of the guards, and they hastened to put out the flames before they could spread.  
  
In the chaos, Kirin had eyes only for Solas, who looked at him with a fierce disapproval Kirin only ever associated with his Keeper, but the effect was rather ruined by all the blood.  
  
“Fen’harel’s furry taint!” he cursed at the realization, kneeling to heal the other mage. Of all things, Solas grinned. Remorse flooded over all the anger he’d been feeling, with only the smallest hint of exasperation. “Why did you push me?! I wasn’t going to-”  
  
Solas grasped at the arrow stuck in the ground and pulled it out with a little effort, holding it up for Lavellan to see. “I know you wouldn’t have.” He looked down curiously at Kirin’s hands which were doing nothing besides smearing his blood all over his chest. “What are you doing?”  
  
Kirin turned red and Solas felt the familiar warmth of his embarrassment, though it didn't show on his face. “I am Dalish. My clan never trained healers. Healing is for the weak.” He stopped inundating his hands in Solas’ lifeblood to tear open the hedge mage’s tunic. “This is the only way I know how.” He told him apologetically.  
  
He raised his palms over the gushing cut and a faint, crimson glow began to form in the space between. Solas felt his flesh begin to knit back together, and watched in mild fascination. A savage Dalish elf, and the supposed Herald of Antraste, practicing blood magic in broad daylight on the streets of Val Royeaux. He decided that it was lucky that Kirin’s magic had returned when it did, and set the square ablaze, or he was sure the guard would have called the Templars back.  
  
Varric arrived on the scene, and Solas wondered when he had left.  
  
“Couldn’t find the nug-brained arch—oh, Scrappy, I know some people who would just _love_ you,” he indicated Kirin’s glowing red hands.  
  
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic..” Kirin said, though he couldn’t look up for fear of breaking his concentration.  
  
“A talent I pride myself on.”  
  
Cassandra either was too preoccupied with assisting the guards to notice, or chose not to comment due to their presence. Solas hoped it was the former, because the tongue-lashing Lavellan would get for this act would be heard all throughout Thedas if not.  
  
Kirin pulled away, inspecting his handy work. There would be no scar, a testament to Kirin’s quick action, and of course the strength of blood magic. Solas couldn’t complain. He looked up at the Herald, who appeared all too proud of his accomplishment, and fought the urge to remind him exactly whose fault it was that he’d ended up bleeding on the ground in the first place. Kirin smiled slyly down at the apostate, bringing his thumb to his mouth and licking a stripe through the blood there.  
  
Solas tasted bile. “Loathesome barbarian.” In his disgust, his hand had dropped to his side, slack around the arrow, and Varric took it from him. Cassandra joined them at last, fingers pressing at her throbbing temples, eyes on Varric mostly, and never on the Herald.  
  
“Someone’s sending you love letters, Scrappy,” he untied a small piece of parchment from the shaft, and scanned it. “Know anyone named _Red Jenny_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the moral of the story is: don't fuck with tha herald. he'll cut a bitch.
> 
> also most of that shit with lord seeker lucius got skipped over because i don't remember it and fuck that guy. i just made some stuff up.
> 
> hooray, so sera is my favorite. and i never do a playthrough where we're not besties.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time skip to the fallow mire because ZOMBIES and SERA and BULL. OH MY.

Two heated arguments, three handkerchiefs, four new recruits, and five soul-rendingly tense weeks (full of diplomacy and missions and fuck-all else) later found them in a bog.

  


Of the two mages Kirin had at his disposal, he tended to drag Solas along the most often, due to his inherent trust issues regarding 'shemlens' and Vivienne's adamant support of Templars and other Chantry nonsense. In this instant, the Dread Wolf really wished that weren’t the case.  
  
“Are you sure you require more magical skills on this venture, Da’len?” he had protested weakly, “Surely your own would suffice.”  
  
But, “Please, Hahren,” he had beseeched. “Is this because of Val Royeaux? Forgive me, Hahren. I was a fool and acted thoughtlessly,” Black eyes wide, practically begging. Solas was half sure that look could have a body skipping gleefully into the Void after him.  
  
Aggravated, he had sighed, “Of course I forgive you, Da’len, I just..” Another sigh, defeated now. “When do we leave?”  
  
“After sunset.”

  


“Remind me,” The Iron Bull resisted a shudder at the freezing rain beating down over them, hacking mercilessly at a hoard of corpses that had risen up when Kirin and Sera’s horseplay sent him reeling into the swampy water, “why we’re in this shithole again?”  
  
Lavellan and Sera bristled in unison, though the mage was too busy electrocuting archers to respond.  
  
“A rescue mission, you daft man-cow,” Sera half-yelled over the shrieking of wisps and the groaning of the undead around them. Her brow furrowed as she tried to decide who needed shooting first. Solas froze one of the undead warriors as it drew too near Iron Bull, and it cracked and broke apart as his giant ax slammed into the ground.  
  
Grunting from the physical exertion as he swung his weapon in a wide arc, sending the weaker ones scattering backwards, he said, “No offense to you Solas, but Lavellan, couldn’t you have brought someone else? You know..” A grunt as three attack him at once, managing to knock him back, “Someone to help me with all the heavy lifting?”  
  
Lavellan exchanged a look with Sera and she stopped picking off Bull’s attackers to take over the ranged ones that Lavellan had been struggling with earlier. Solas squinted to make out the sheer number of arrows in the front of Kirin’s robe, and then, seeing the bloodied, Dalish fool moving to the front to help Iron Bull, cast a barrier around the both of them.  
  
Lavellan twirled his staff in hand, flipping it blade-forward as Sera rejoiced at the downfall of the last archer. He thrust his staff forward with enough strength behind it to impale two of them, effectively trapping them and giving Iron Bull enough time to slice the heads off of the other three.  
  
But Kirin wasn’t done. He moved his hands down his staff, within the reach of the two undead there, to wrap around the leather grip. He sent a surge of pure fire through the weapon. Shrieks filled the air, along with the acrid smell of burning, rotten flesh.  
  
They disintegrated to ash beneath the Herald’s feet.  
  
He swiped sweat from his shining brow with the back of his marked hand, though it was hard to tell sweat from rain, and said, “If you need help just say so. I’m up for heavy lifting.”

  


They found a beacon shortly after and Solas had the bright idea to light it with veilfire. Which only served to call forth more undead and a freakish nightmare that Kirin had only ever seen fall out of rifts before.  
  
By the time they made camp, Bull’s entire upper body was covered in blood and undead gore, and Kirin hadn’t bothered to use any healing potions at all. Arrows stuck out of him like a pin cushion. Sera was sliced up all over, but most of her wounds were superficial, thanks to her impressive ability to dodge. Solas had the good sense to remove arrows and heal himself; however he got caught from behind and couldn’t reach the slash down his back to heal it.  
  
“Foolish savage,” Solas said when Lavellan returned from relieving himself. Without being told, Lavellan climbed into the tent that Solas would share with The Iron Bull (because Sera refused to share with Elfy or Man-cow) and laid across the palette that served as a makeshift healer’s table. Solas looked over all the arrows and tried to count them. He lost count at 32 when Kirin cleared his throat.  
  
“It’s okay Hahren,” he assured, with all the blissful ignorance of a child consoling a parent.  
  
“There is nothing I can do for the pain, Da’len,” he informed the young elf gently. All the injury just made him look younger and sadder.  
  
Kirin laughed and started coughing up blood. After the fit subsided, he touched a finger to the stark white markings over his tanned skin, eyes watering from his laughter and subsequent coughing, teeth red. “Didn’t make a sound, remember? I can take it.”  
  
He frowned at the reminder he didn't want or need. “You will have scars. Healing is not a strength of mine.”  
  
The Herald shrugged his indifference.  
  
So Solas started with the arms. 5 in the left, 8 in the right. Then the legs. 12 in his calves, 13 in his thighs. One of these lodged where his hip met his leg and when Solas removed that one, Kirin’s body convulsed. At the apostate’s questioning upward glance, he only said, “I’m ticklish.” And continued to stare up at the supports that held the tent.  
  
After that Solas stopped counting, and true to his word, Lavellan didn’t make a single sound.  
  
The two retired to their respective tents, Lavellan with Sera and Solas with the Iron Bull, whose restless slumber kept him up for a good deal of the night. When Solas at last succumbed to the pull of the fade, he found himself dancing through nightmares not entirely his own. This was a disconcerting phenomenon and it disturbed him so greatly that he woke with a start, just barely before dawn.  
  
“Fenhedis!” he swore violently, ripping covers from Iron Bull to get a better look at the wound that had festered overnight. “Lavellan!”  
  
He had awoken in the twilight hours to the foul reek of it, but went back to sleep when he remembered who he shared a tent with. That is, until he sensed the fever dreams while he danced in and out of the fade, unable to slip fully into his dreams out here in this evil place.  
  
Lavellan’s sleepy face poked through the tent flap, and Sera’s nearly identical expression below him. “Wazzat? Whatchu want?” she asked.  
  
Kirin blinked the scene into focus and swore as fiercely as Solas, if a bit more creatively, “Dread Wolf maul your stupid pride, Bull! Why didn’t you have this healed?! I told you!” he shook the feverish Qunari as though this might have his words headed.  
  
“Andraste, what is that stench?!” Sera seemed to be awake as well now, “That is rank!”  
  
“Solas, can you?” Kirin gave him that look and he found that although it was the truth, he felt reluctant to deny him.  
  
“Not at this stage..”  
  
“Fuck!” Lavellan had fallbacks for times when creativity failed him. “Fuck, Bull, if you survive this, I will saw your horns off and stick them up your dumb ass!”

  


Lavellan arranged an entire entourage to escort Bull back and had Scout Harding send for Cassandra and Vivienne. He insisted that Sera go back to Haven, which of course made her angry. Solas could tell Kirin would pay for that when they returned.  
  
When all was said and done, they carried the shaking Qunari off in a litter held by 12 men and Sera trudged sullenly in their wake.  
  
And they were alone in the marshes.  
  
“Cassandra and Madame De Fer should be arriving in a few days,” Kirin told him, wringing his hands now that lives were out of them. Quick and steady to action, but nervous in idle waiting. Solas’ lips turned up at the corners.  
  
“How shall we keep busy in the meantime?” he asked. He meant it innocently enough, but coupled with the grin and possible implications, he could see reason for the Herald’s sudden vibrant blush. The campfire flared momentarily and Lavellan clapped a hand over his mouth.  
  
“Forgive me,” he said in a rush through his fingers. “I am not quite recovered yet. Perhaps I should sleep before we venture out anymore.”  
  
Lavellan disappeared then into his tent. Solas followed.  
  
“What are you doing?” Kirin was obviously trying for authoritative, from his sitting position on his bedroll, but it got lost in the jitters and crackling heat he was unable to control.  
  
“I thought I might sleep as well.”  
  
“Ah. In here?” he sounded only vaguely interested, but Solas felt a sheen of sweat break out over the bridge of his nose from the heat inside. He couldn’t decide if the warmth felt welcoming or overbearing. He went for a neutral answer.  
  
“I assume you won’t have me in a tent with either Vivienne or Cassandra.”  
  
Lavellan grimaced. Solas was right, but he didn’t want the two ladies together either. It was too late to ask for Blackwall instead of Cassandra. The scouts had left nearly an hour ago.  
  
“Perhaps we should erect another tent,” he said hopelessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: I wrote this because of how many times I died lighting the beacons on my first playthrough, which of course I played on nightmare because psh. Duh. I died a lot, gave up and came back after haven. Those poor soldiers..


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ohhh lame stuff. story and not-porn.. sorry :c

“It is heavier than my sword,” Cassandra wondered, balancing Kirin’s staff in her palm as though it were a blade she tested.  
  
The Herald found it amusing, the way she approached all things in the same warrior-minded manner. “It has to be,” he told her. He almost explained the reason behind it, but stopped himself, not wanting to sound as though he were bragging.  
  
But of course she would ask.  
  
“But why? It is so cumbersome.. and your build is very..” she searched her mind for a polite way to say scrawny.  
  
“Lithe,” offered Vivienne from the corner of camp she dominated, bent over a makeshift lab that she had dragged along with her. She had scouts deliver it to each new camp they settled. Very carefully, she would instruct them.  
  
She never said it, but the ‘or else’ was always implied.  
  
Lavellan had no idea what sort of experiments she conducted, but the smells produced by them had him thinking he’d rather not know in any case. He returned to his attempt at reading some nonsense tome on veilfire while Cassandra twirled his staff in some kind of dance, switching from hand to hand. He found this beautiful and distracting. In fact anything was more beautiful and distracting than ancient Tevinter books he couldn’t read that were likely older than the Creators themselves.  
  
The Herald had found several volumes of these ancient books, written in another tongue. For a few days, Kirin attempted to decipher them, but they were written in Arcanum, which he only had a very small grasp on when speaking, and next to nothing when reading. He gave them up eventually and one night, as they settled into their bedrolls for sleep, he dropped all six of them unceremoniously next to Solas.  
  
Solas appraised the flippant gift with wide, unmoved eyes.  
  
“My,” he whispered, a spark of mirth adding a lilt to his voice, “and here I thought you’d burn them out of frustration before you came to me for help. I suppose Dalish pride can be overcome.”  
  
“I not asking for your help!” Kirin blustered, aghast at the mere suggestion.  
  
“No?” still light-hearted in tone, but hard as diamonds underneath, cold as the mountain tops, “Then are you ordering me, your Worship?”  
  
“No! Creators’ gilded halls, no!” Lavellan protested, shaking his head. “They are..”  
  
A gift, he wanted to say, but the word swelled in his throat and stuck there. Such a careless gesture didn’t deserve that title. He’d done nothing with the hedge mage in mind. Had only thought of him when he was certain the tomes were of no use in his possession.  
  
“For you,” he choked out at last, burrowing into his bedroll and facing away from Solas purposefully, “May you find some use for them.”  
  
Solas crowded into the perpetual heat that radiated from Lavellan and said under his breath, “Tevinter took much from our people, lethallin. Arcanum is easy to learn. Many of the words are taken from our language and warped slightly by time and dialect. If you ask it, I could..”  
  
Kirin ignored him, but Solas knew he was still awake. Lavellan’s mark tugged at the fade as he slept, a fascinating phenomenon that he equated to bread crumbs. The piece of him that was the fade left this small connection so it could find its way back out. The epiphany hit him suddenly, that he seemed to be the only one who sensed when Lavellan’s mark interacted with the veil between worlds. This only confirmed his suspicion, giving him this tugging, bright white hope and this sickening, tainted weight of culpability in tandem.  
  
“Ir abelas, Da’len,” he sighed heavily when he felt the telltale tug of Kirin entering his dreams.

The next day passed in a series of nightmares that they never woke up from. First there was a rift that needed to be opened to be closed. And undead. A giant Avvar, named Sky Watcher, who had no quarrel with them so long as they had none with him. And undead. Three more beacons they conquered and reached the hold only to find the largest hoard of undead yet surrounding its doors.  
  
“Dread Wolf take these abominations,” Kirin scowled around the curse, pelting them with fire only to have more join them from the swamp to either side.  
  
“I’m certain he wouldn’t want them..” Solas muttered darkly though his teeth, grinding them in his effort to retain mana.  
  
“Maker, there are so many!” Cassandra, who had rushed in, barreling through their fragile bodies with her shield, retreated now, to the relative safety of her comrades.  
  
“Solas,” Lavellan called. “A barrier.”  
  
Solas cast it with great effort, letting it engulf the four of them, and expending what little magical energies were left to him after the endless barrage of corpses. The second he felt the soft, earthy magic caress him, Kirin took off, like a bolt from a crossbow. Undead barely registered his presence as he passed, and Cassandra, Vivienne and Solas followed suit, without question.  
  
Until they reach the closed gate.  
  
“Well,” Vivienne commented, sounding affronted, “Quite rude to bait someone with a ransom and then tell the doorman to take the day off.”  
  
“Quite,” Cassandra agreed with a huff, winded from sprinting in her heavy armor. They were backed up against the locked entrance to the keep as undead swarmed in around them.  
  
“There,” Solas pointed with his staff at the controls up above.  
  
“Thank Mythal for your beautiful mind,” Lavellan breathed, following his gaze and spotting them as well, “I could kiss you.”  
  
Instead, he darted up the unguarded stairs and around, snatching up some scattered health potions on the ground before colliding with a solid plate armor chest piece.  
  
“Fen’Harel enansal,” he snarled to himself, letting the irony steel him as his eyes met those of the warrior who towered above him.  
  
“What’s that, knife-ear?” the oaf laughed.  
  
The rest were trapped below by the walking dead, and he knew they wouldn’t be able to help in this. He jumped back swift as Sera in that moment, as the giant hefted his proportionally giant maul.  
  
“Creators preserve me,” he prayed quickly, darting to the side and around, faster than his counterpart could turn, searching out weak spots in the armor.  
  
There were none perceivable to his eye. Why hadn’t he brought Varric? The dwarf was more cunning than any of them by half. Except for Sera maybe, but she hid it so well, no one would guess.  
  
He heard Vivienne call to him that she was overwhelmed, Solas swearing articulately in several languages, and Cassandra calling a retreat. To nowhere. That decided him. He dodged once more, rolling past the warrior in a daring curve that threatened to put him in the path of the second swing. He felt it miss him by a hair, but had no time to thank every god who had or hadn’t existed, and so he moved lightning fast, yanking the lever down hard. He heard the gate go up. Cassandra’s strained, “Thank the Maker!” And Vivienne’s tense, “Where is the Herald?”  
  
“He will come!” Solas shouted, not daring to grab either of them to drag them to safety. “We must move!”  
  
Lavellan watched in manic fascination as the warrior lunged for him. He dodged it, but even as the warrior tired of chasing, Kirin tired of running.  
  
Not for the first time in his life (though he could never be convinced of it) he got lucky.  
  
The banister he had been cornered against gave under the larger man’s bulk and the force of his misdirected attack. He toppled gracelessly into a sea of animated corpses. They devoured him in a much time as Lavellan would require to eat a sweetbread.  
  
Lavellan leapt over them in the highest arc he could manage, in order to bypass anymore fighting before he could size up the clan leader he was meant to battle. It only became clear that this was a terrible idea upon landing.  
  
He heard a resounding crack first, and only felt it when it reverberated up his entire leg.  
  
So painful he couldn’t find it in him to swear. This was his reaction to pain. Shut it away. Pain is temporary.  
  
He limped after his crew as quickly as he could manage.  
  
By the time he caught up, they were dispatching the last of the outside guards.  
  
“Alive again, I see,” Vivienne quipped as though he hadn’t heard her fretting before Solas herded them away. It was endearing, all the same. “How you continue to survive with such dangerous habits, I fear I’ll never know.”  
  
“You and half of Thedas,” agreed Cassandra grudgingly.  
  
“Garas, Da’len.” Solas’ voice from the top of the stair. An extended hand, a brief worried look at his ankle.  
  
He began a determined march upwards and ignored the proffered hand, just reached into his pack and pulled out one of the healing potions he had picked up, downing it in three gulps.  
  
His more minor wounds disappeared altogether and he felt the pain in his ankle ebb, but he would need magic to put it right. He was loath to ask Vivienne, mostly because he knew she called on favors that were owed her.  
  
“Come here, darling,” he heard her say sweetly, and knew better than to ignore her. “I don’t suppose you planned to fight on that ankle, did you?” She didn’t wait for his answer and forced him to sit at the top stair.  
  
Her smooth, dark hands encircled the swollen joint that connected his foot to his calf and instantly he felt the flow of her magic setting the bone. He didn’t flinch when it snapped back into place and Vivienne nodded a small approval at this.  
  
“Now, dear, there’s no more time,” she told him. “Let us rescue these soldiers of Cullen’s.”  
  
The Avvar leader was massive, moreso than the hapless warrior Lavellan had narrowly avoided before. Even with his healed ankle, he was knocked out when the first hit landed. One by one they went down, until only Vivienne remained. She attempted to cast a mass rejuvenation spell to revive her unconscious companions, but it only healed their wounds, and they remained still.  
  
“Very well,” she sighed, tone bordering agitation. She grasped her staff lower, her magic activating a spirit blade when it flowed into the hilt there. Transformed now. Mage to warrior in an instant. Kirin came to in time to see her completely demolish the tribesman’s armor in a single stroke of her translucent, green greatsword. Two more and he fell. The Herald couldn’t find the energy to demand to know why she hadn’t done that in the first place.  
  
The soldiers were so grateful, and the misplaced gratitude chafed at him. But Vivienne refused to take any credit for her single-handed defeat of the leader, deferring to him any who would dare approach her.  
  
When they reached the nearest camp, laden with gifts and some stolen treasures, Sky Watcher was waiting there. He offered to become an agent for the Inquisition and Lavellan never turned away new people.  
  
Vivienne pulled him aside after.  
  
“You’re physical strength is a rarity among today’s mages,” she told him conversationally. “That, and an obvious high tolerance for pain.”  
  
“Yes,” he agreed, unsure where this was going. These were things he’d heard before.  
  
“The kind of magic I do incorporates your physical strength with the strength of your connection to the fade.”  
  
“Oh,” he said, groggy and likely concussed.  
  
Vivienne for her part, was patient. “I will teach you these skills, if you like. You will be a force to be reckoned with. Stronger than me, I’d expect. You spend your time fighting up front with the warriors anyways. You’d be better equipped for it with these talents. Invincible.”  
  
Kirin agreed to think about it. Perhaps he’d have time for the training after they spoke with the rebel mages and closed the breach, but for now he would retire.  
  
In the sanctuary of his tent he collapsed, his exhausted body hitting the plush sleeping roll with a muffled thud. He exhaled contentedly, and fell instantly into sleep. Solas sat down beside him, closing his eyes and feeling the pull of Lavellan’s mark in the back of his mind, beckoning him. In the end, he also laid down and fell into deep slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: so I’m pretty sure “Fen’Harel enansal” means something along the lines of, “Dread Wolf’s Blessings” which in the context I used it should mean something like “just my luck”  
> garas is “come” (definitely gonna be using that later ;3 ifyouknowwhatimean)  
> the rest is usually common knowledge for solaslovers and I’m too lazy for more translations. Also! All of the companions already have their specialization skills (so yes Vivienne took on the big bad scary all by her lonesome while everybody was knocked out because that’s how knight-enchanters do) only the herald is undecided, because no one has taught him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> solas' favorite pastime and lavellan's a stubborn fool

After the return to Haven, Kirin found his time mostly occupied by preparations to meet with Redcliffe’s mages. Only to talk, he assured Cassandra every time she brought it up, which was often enough to aggravate him.  
  
The Herald had chosen his companions for this particular mission based on their aptitude for diplomacy. Solas could not fault him this, for he happened to have overheard a conversation between Lavellan and Josephine regarding the catastrophe in Val Royeaux and his position as a representative of the Inquisition. Its conclusion was an agreement that he would quit flaunting his Elven apostate mage companion and make any further decisions based on strategy and not on personal whim.  
  
In the end, Lavellan chose Cassandra and Vivienne for their connections and experience, and Varric for his silver tongue.  
  
As he rushed out of the apothecary the day before they would depart, new potions and handful of notes for Minaeve clutched to his chest, Solas caught his arm.  
  
“Lavellan,” he greeted. The first word he’d spoken to the Herald in the week since their arrival back here.  
  
Kirin’s nose was red with the cold, breath coming out in little white puffs. “Solas,” he returned in a raspy tenor. The elder elf’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“Are you ill?”  
  
Lavellan scoffed. “I’m fine,” he insisted when Solas’ gaze hardened. He changed the subject, “Was there something you needed?”  
  
Solas hesitated to allow this redirection, but answered at last, “Actually, I wanted to thank you.”  
  
Lavellan’s eyebrows rose vaguely in question and he was looking somewhere beyond Solas, instead of at him.  
  
“The tomes you gave me, they were very enlightening.”  
  
There was no change in temperature or crackle of magic to hint to Lavellan’s feelings, nor could Solas gage the shade of red on his cheeks from the blush of being out in the cold. He was at a loss to read the gruff Dalish mage now and found he was unsettled by it. Perhaps Kirin was firmly focused on the task at hand for once.  
  
All he got in response was a brusque, “Think nothing of it,” before Kirin bounded distractedly past him to continue on his way to see Varric about some poisons.  
  
And so he thought nothing of it for the next few weeks, and indulged in the most quality Fade time he’d had since this entire debacle began.  
  
Though he had resisted the urge to do so thus far, his curiosity regarding Lavellan got the better of him, and though he did his best not to pry into the past of Kirin himself, he wandered through that of his clan, learning their histories and values, hoping to gain insight on the Herald’s mannerisms.  
  
He hadn’t lied when he’d said that healing was not a priority, and the reason for this was immediately apparent. It appeared that Lavellan must have been the first of his clan to possess magical ability in many centuries, which explained his lapses in control. The Keeper who trained him would have done so based on theory and that which can be read in books.  
  
He found it perplexing that this clan tended to have very simplistic vallaslin and none seemed to be near as extreme in detail (and therefore pain) as what he’d seen of Kirin’s own. They were limited to the face as most blood writing was. In fact, this clan appeared relatively rational, when compared to the radical Kirin Lavellan, with the exception of their penchant for blaspheming. So that at least, he had certainly picked up amongst them.  
  
Like all Dalish, they prided themselves on their usefulness in the hunt and how well they provided for clan and family. The traditions they kept were muddled by time, and Solas was somewhat disgusted as he passed through a group of stark naked elves dancing under the stars to pay homage to their unknowing creators. What he saw in their midst gave him pause, though.  
  
He hadn’t meant to. Actively avoided it, really, but there was Lavellan, a child of no more than 12 years, naked as the day he was born, kneeling in their center as each smeared what looked like blood over his face, chest and shoulders in passing. None interrupted the dance to do so.  
  
He recognized it as a cleanse. Warped and backwards though it was, it was meant to drive out evils. Not necessarily demons; more like the evils belonging solely to mortals.  
  
This only fanned the flames of his curiosity so that it raged and he had to force himself from the fade to keep from seeking out more of the memories pertaining directly to the Herald.  
  
But each day Kirin was away on his mission, the temptation only grew, and in his dreams, Solas would feel the persistent pull of them like the tug of Lavellan’s mark.  
  
Why?  
  
He slept fitfully and took to drinking tea to stay awake. To stay away. The image of child Lavellan’s wide, empty eyes burned into his mind like a brand.  
  
Kirin’s return caused an eruption of activity amongst the Inquisition’s previously idle members. It was like being brought back from a daze with a bucket of ice water. Solas had been reading a book on the Black City when the door to his hut slammed open to reveal Cassandra and Vivienne holding up a rather pathetic looking Herald between them.  
  
Not a scratch on him, but feverish and rampant magic buzzing about him with no outlet.  
  
“So you _were_ ill, you fool.” Solas shut his book with a snap and didn’t bother to hide his exasperation.  
  
“I don’t get ill,” wheezed Kirin.  
  
Solas directed his attention to Cassandra who, with Vivienne’s assistance, was easing Lavellan into bed. Into _his_ bed.  
  
“Would the Herald not prefer his own quarters?” he asked her, as though he were simply pondering it as a second option.  
  
“Don’t be absurd, dear,” Vivienne quipped, and Solas felt a twinge of annoyance at her voice alone, “Yours are closest to Apothecary Adan.”  
  
“She is right,” Cassandra affirmed, as though it were necessary. Sound logic is sound logic after all. “Madame Vivienne, if you would wake him, please? I shall deliver our report to the others.”  
  
With that they left Solas to watch over Kirin, who was promptly asleep the second he hit the palette of furs. He burrowed into them, and continued to shift and murmur in his sleep. The apothecary knocked at the door and Solas bid him enter.  
  
Adan sighed in exasperation.  
  
“I warned him that medication would not work without proper rest,” he grumbled, and gave the Herald a hard shake to wake him. Kirin groggily swallowed the potion that was offered him and scrunched up his face at the taste.  
  
“I did tell you before that the stronger one would taste worse. You should have postponed that mission like I instructed.”  
  
“Yes,” Solas interjected, amused, “by all means, postpone the saving of the world.”  
  
“It would have been better to postpone it a few days,” Adan replied, absently checking Kirin’s vitals as he prepared to leave. “For now he will likely take at least a week to recover.” He turned to look at Solas, grouchiness turned to grave seriousness, “And from what I’ve heard, he stirred up a lot of shit at Redcliffe. At this point I doubt we have the time to spare.”

 

Adan was right. Kirin had stirred up shit, and attracted the attention of a Tevinter magister by the name of Alexius. Not only that, but the Lord Seeker seemed to have changed his mind and developed a keen interest in the Inquisition's banner boy. He was building quite a fan base and it didn’t seem to paint a pretty picture.  
  
Lavellan was spending his days confined to Solas’ hut while he recovered and Solas was spending his time away from Lavellan, after discovering what poor company a sick Dalish elf made on that first morning.  
  
He had attempted to strike up conversation by asking Kirin how the meeting went, though Varric had dropped by to fill him in earlier while the Herald slept.  
  
This simple question prompted a fit of hissing and spitting and swearing to the Creators that he would destroy all the Vints in the world.  
  
“May they walk the Void eternal with Fen’Harel’s stinking maw at their backs!” he’d finished.  
  
Solas’ eyebrows had, by this time, inched all the way up his forehead, as he wondered how Lavellan managed to have enough energy to throw tantrums while he still had a fever.  
  
“Perhaps you should rest some more, Da’len,” Solas suggested, standing up and stretching his sore limbs. He’d slept in the wooden chair that night and shared Kirin’s fever dreams by no choice of his own. They were all fire and screaming halla. Bows and arrows and a chase that never ended.  
  
He moved to stand beside the bed and gave the other a gentle push backwards onto the pillows, keeping careful distance between them. The idea was very clearly unappealing to Kirin, but he was in no position to argue.  
  
As Solas opened the door to leave, he heard Lavellan say quietly, sleepily, “I missed your ears, Hahren.”  
  
“Sleep, Da’len,” he replied, and shut the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH THE DRAMA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: wow. how late is this? and it's really not even that special. i have no excuse. i'm sorry. and i promise this is going somewhere probably.

**Chapter 7**

“You’re taking me this time, Herald,” Sera asserted, flitting about behind him like a gnat, “Or you’ll get my boot up your glowy green arse.”

“I haven’t even decided where I’m going, Sera,” Lavellan told her as he walked purposefully through the grounds. It was the first day since his valiant return that he’d been allowed to leave the confines of that blighted hut, and so he was eagerly making his way to the war room to discuss the newest development in their plans.

“Herald!” he heard the urgent hail from his destination and quickened his pace, leaving Sera to hover behind, reluctant to go near the place where the politics happen.  
  
“Lady Ambassador,” he greeted, remembering his manners for once.  
  
“Thank goodness you are well!” she sighed, and for a moment he thought she had been fretting over his well-being, but she quickly continued in her usual manner, “We have much to discuss before you make your decision. Cullen fears your judgement in this matter will be clouded by your own predispositions.”  
  
“That is probably true for most things involving the Inquisition,” he conceded.  
  
“You don’t understand,” she insisted, “He has been adamant that we exclude you altogether.”  
  
“What?” Lavellan wondered, his mind unable to register the suggested mutiny.  
  
“He—” but he didn’t hear the rest, only pushed past her into the Chantry. She followed suit and bit back a comment on his rough treatment, knowing that it would make no difference. You can take the Dalish out of the wild, but you can’t take the wild out of the Dalish.  
  
“—is not what I meant!” he could hear Cullen’s voice from within. “I’ve told you, I don’t care that he’s a mage, but a blood mage. How can you abide—”  
  
“It’s not our place to abide.” Leiliana cut in, her voice quieter but somehow managing to stop him short.  
  
“She is right, Cullen,” Cassandra said as Lavellan pushed through the doorway without preamble. “The Maker chose him. It is the Maker’s will that he should see this through.”  
  
“Well I don’t know about all that,” Kirin waved a staticky hand in dismissal, knowing that keeping his emotions in check was of utmost importance at this particular moment. And the sense of betrayal wasn’t helping.  
  
Neither was Cullen’s shamelessly challenging stare.  
  
“In my defense, if I may, Commander,” he tried tightly, “Blood magic was a last resort, and always has been. It’s not a frequent practice of mine.”  
  
“It never is, until it is.”  
  
“Then I should have left Solas to die for all of Val Royeaux to see?”  
  
“Or perhaps you shouldn’t have cut him in the first place,” Cassandra interjected coolly.  
  
“You stay out of this, Seeker!” his words lit up with fire on his tongue. He felt a severe lack of justice in this conversation. And no one had ever dampened his magic before that. He had panicked in his powerlessness and lashed out. Couldn’t they see that?  
  
“Lady Cassandra makes a valid point,” Josephine intoned neutrally. “Your temper created the situation that required you to call upon such magicks.”  
  
“Enough,” Leiliana said. “It is clear that the Herald needs to learn to control his anger; however, it is not a problem for us to solve. We have more pressing matters to attend to. These mages you spoke with, for instance?” she prompted gently, eyes landing on him with a hard stare that demanded an answer.  
  
“Are indentured to the Imperium,” he told her grudgingly, not quite willing to drop it, “A magister by the name of Alexius used some kind of time magic to get to them before us.”  
  
“Fiona is their leader, is she not?” Josephine asked, thumbing through the papers in her hands, “You said that she was the one to approach you in Val Royeaux, though Alexius’ spell has changed this part of her past. Perhaps you ought to speak with her again.”  
  
“I’m reluctant to deal with anyone who deals with Tevinter.”  
  
“For good reason,” Cullen could agree with him on this at least. “It reflects poorly on her judgement that she would even consider serving the Imperium.”  
  
“Isn’t that treason?” Cassandra asked, idly moving pieces around on the war table, while Josephine frantically went behind her to correct them.  
  
“And yet you dealt with Magister Alexius yourself, not a week ago,” Leiliana pointed out.  
  
“At the Inquisition’s behest,” he countered, “and through great personal injury. And nothing was achieved.”  
  
“It would be beneficial to our cause, if we sought more information on these Venatori,” Leiliana added, “And mages are powerful allies.”  
  
Kirin nodded his head, feeling as though she was intentionally trying to flatter him. It was working.  
  
“Then we leave the Templars to their fate?” Cullen sounded affronted.  
  
“The Lord Seeker chose their fate for them, Commander,” Cassandra informed him gently. “He has no desire to consort with the Inquisition.”  
  
“The Inquisition, no,” Josephine piped up, suddenly, “but since your encounter, he’s shown a great deal of interest in our Herald. If we could get the support of a few nobles, I believe he would consent to at least meet with you, Your Worship.” She turned her attention to him as she finished.  
  
Kirin considered for a moment, remembering the one Templar who spoke against the Lord Seeker’s actions, wondering if there were more like him; true champions of the just silenced by rank. Could he leave them to die? A possible army of innocents under the command of the corrupt.  
  
“Then that begs the question: would you so easily desert your own kind to the control of a cruel magister?” the spymaster’s voice is a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. It was as if she could read his mind.  
  
“My kind?” he asked, surprised. He was Dalish. He never knew the Circle, or felt the pain of their prison. They were not _his kind_. He tried to word his feelings carefully, though. “I admit, I’ve met few mages in my life. I never thought of the rebel mages as “my kind.”  
  
_Solas is my kind_ , his mind provided unhelpfully. _Elf, apostate, outcast. Alone_.  
  
“But regardless, they are as innocent and as guilty as the Templars in all of this. No choice we make is better than the other.”  
  
The room seemed to tense up when he said it.  
  
“In the end, Herald,” Josephine started quietly, setting down her papers and rounding the table to stand beside him, “it is up to you alone. You alone have caught the interest of the parties involved. You will be in the most danger, whatever you choose.”  
  
“Am I to understand that my presence is required to lure them?”  
  
“Essentially, yes.”  
  
“This is the Dread Wolf’s Blessing,” he sulked pitifully. “I can’t catch a break.”  
  
“The work of the holy is never done,” Cullen offered sympathetically.  
  
“I am wholly unholy,” he joked, and managed to extract the tiniest smile from the Commander, who likely agreed whole-heartedly with the statement.  
  
“Unfortunately, Your Unholiness,” Dorian’s smooth voice interrupted sardonically, as he entered the war room uninvited, “your illness has left you with very little time to decide on this matter.”  
  
And while the Tevinter’s intrusion certainly put him off, Kirin couldn’t deny the truth to his words.  
  
“What do you think I should do then?”  
  
“The mages have needed someone on their side for far too long, Your Worship. If we abandon them now, we abandon them for all time,” Leiliana said sadly.  
  
He looked at Cullen then, knowing already what he intended, and knowing that Cullen wouldn’t appreciate it.  
  
“I’ve little interest in the Chantry or their champions,” he said carefully. “I gave the Templars one chance already. These mages have been manipulated by magic and haven’t gotten a chance yet.”  
  
“I understand,” Cullen replied gravely. “But know that your actions have consequences. You likely doom the Templars with this decision.”  
  
“Then that is on my hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: so things are starting to happen. sorry for the absolute lack of solas in this chapter. there's is more of him to come (LOL) no but really, i'm sorry please forgive me and say nice things. c:


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mostly conversation. a lot of getting there. a lot of elfiness. a lot of dorian, go jump in a frozen, ferelden lake.  
> a lot of solas epiphany.  
> some trespasser spoilers with the elfy translations in the notes at the bottom! a lot of not cliffhanger because we've all played the game lol

**Chapter 8**

“Great, he’s taking the Mage Brigade,” Sera pouted from below, as he attempted to steady his mount, who had never quite trusted the city elf, after she rode him over a beehive in the Hinterlands.  
  
“Naturally, darling,” Madame Vivienne said from atop her own brilliantly behaved steed. “Too much magic and Tevinter in Redcliffe for the faint of heart.” Sera smiled to herself in a way that certainly promised Vivienne would have to check her wardrobe for insects and her drinks for sleeping draughts, should she make it back alive. Kirin thought about intervening right then, but instead, was distracted by Seeker Pentaghast approaching.  
  
Cassandra strode up to the Herald purposefully. “Are you sure you want to go to the mages, Lavellan?” she asked him quietly. He realized that it was a sign of respect for his decision that she did not publicly challenge him.  
  
“Yes. This is my only path, Seeker,” he told her, trying to assure himself at the same time. He felt the heavy gazes of the members of the Inquisition upon him. Knew he should say something to assure them all. But his kind were made of arrows and fists, not smiles and speeches. He would leave the explaining to Josephine for the time-being. As an afterthought, he added a quiet ‘thank you’ for her concern, remembering that shems were overly fond of their niceties.  
  
It seemed to please her, because she ran her hand over his stallion’s flank and asked him to please return safely.  
  
He couldn’t remember saying goodbye to his other companions. Couldn’t fathom the looks on their faces as he disappeared from Haven at a slow trot. For what seemed like forever now, he’d been staring at the back of one Dorian Pavus, and carrying the weight of Solas’ heavy gaze behind him. Beside him, Vivienne was a steadying font of idle conversation, as though she knew he needed it.  
  
“Did you make a lot of salves and potions within your clan, dear?” she asked him, a few hours into their ride.

He wanted to lie, to pretend he knew all there was to know about potion making. But in truth he’d had no need. He’d relied blindly on his magic to see him healed or safe from harm. His clan was strange about injuries. If you couldn’t walk it off, the creators meant for you to die. So he’d seen many die. And then he’d learned he could save them. The day he used his magic to save another, his camp burned. His clan was destroyed. Clan Lavellan came much later. Saved him. Raised him in a cage.

“No,” he said, doing his best not to look at her, “not initially. I was not a part of Clan Lavellan until later in my life.”

“Ah. Is that so,” she didn’t really ask. She was letting it go. Because she knew again.

For a while after that, they rode in silence. Everything was greener, once out of the mountains, a bit more humid and less windy. They came upon a stream that had yet to freeze over and stopped to water themselves and the horses.

“I don’t see how you southerners do it,” Pavus commented, after taking a long drink from his canteen.

Kirin fought his own eye roll, but grudgingly asked, “Do what?”

“Why, tolerate this frigid weather of course!” he exclaimed.

Vivienne donned an easy smile, half-covered by the thick furs draped over her shoulders. “Yes, darling, your shoddy Tevinter robes are rather unsuited for the snow, aren’t they?”

Pavus turned his head to retort, evidently affronted. “Shoddy?! Your Orlesian nobles are all too happy to dirty their hands in the slave trade just for a look into our wardrobes!” he sniffed.

Kirin bristled at the mention of slaves. A topic they had managed to avoid thus far, though he’d expected to get into it later, once the mages were secured as allies. He calmed himself with the reminder that he needed to get through this one mission by the magister’s side, and then they could easily part ways for good.

“Yes, truly, though I can only imagine they never made it back from the venture, what with half your population consisting of maleficarum. Human sacrifices becoming a precious resource, dear? Must you dip into our stores?”

“Perhaps we ought to move on,” Solas suggested warily. He could have been speaking of conversation topics, but Kirin thought it appropriate to get back on the road as well.

It was another two days before they reached Redcliffe and the camp situation was strained. Solas was the only one of the three of them that did not openly object to sharing a tent with Dorian, though it was obvious to Kirin that he wasn’t entirely too keen on the idea. Regardless, Vivienne wouldn’t share a tent with a magister or an apostate, though for some reason she saw Kirin as an exception to this rule.

Naturally, sleep didn’t come easily for anyone anyways, so they spent much of their time by the fire, sharing stories, theories, and strategies. Kirin enjoyed swapping magic techniques as well, though not a one of them seemed overly eager to learn from the others.

Solas only seemed to want to glean what he could of Kirin about his past and clan. Secrets he found the Herald had little desire to divulge.

He brought it up quite suddenly just as they were arriving outside the village. Dorian had left them at the closed gates to meet up with Felix, doubtlessly intending to make his own grand entrance, lest the Herald of Andraste outshine him. It was left to Madame Vivienne to get them into the village, through charm, blackmail, or whatever wiles might suit her. And this only because Kirin was expressly forbidden from attacking anyone, unless strictly necessary. Which he couldn’t promise, and so was forbidden any form of contact whatsoever until absolutely necessary.

This circumstance left him alone with the hedge mage for a the longest while since before he first came to Redcliffe.

“Your vallaslin is unfamiliar to me,” he mentioned casually. “Which god does it represent?”

Kirin dodged the question rather transparently. “My clan’s patron is Dirthamen.”

“And yet these markings are not his,” Solas persisted.

Kirin turned a defensive gaze on him. “And what would you know about it?”

Solas smiled, unfazed. “Certainly more than you.”

“Fen’harellahn,” he muttered darkly, which Solas thought strangely civil when compared to some of his more colorful terms, and started to re-mount his horse in an attempt to end the conversation.

Solas pondered that perhaps the Dalish perceptions were becoming even more warped, and Kirin’s vallaslin was in fact intended to represent Dirthamen. But there were too many eyes and the designs covered too much of his forehead. As he focused there, and as the Herald hoisted himself back atop his steed, the sun caught the outline of a faded scar, hidden beneath the vexing vallaslin. A peculiar shape. Intentional, familiar.

“Fenhedis lasa..” he swore aloud to no one in particular, frozen in horrified recognition.

“Na bana’dirth venavis, hahren,” Kirin sassed from on high, but Solas could not recognize any humor in the situation at the time. Could only follow in mute solemnity as Vivienne rejoined them and the gates finally opened, allowing their party to enter Redcliffe once more. He and his companions didn’t sense the finality of the gates slamming shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so everyone knows: i love dorian to pieces, but i plan on being very mean to him in this fic.  
> have also started a companion fic that's kirincanon with dorian/fenris pairing because there's not enough of it and i have needs.
> 
> ELFY TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> fen'harellahn- a mash-up of dread wolf and voice, meaning literally "dread wolf's voice," figuratively used among the dalish to imply someone is trying to bait you, or speaking with the intention of inciting anger (yes, i made it up it's unofficial, whatever :p)
> 
> so for this next one, i know there is some debate about the translation for 'banal' because the one official translation says it means 'nothing.' however, with the added dialogue of angry!solasmanced!inquisitor in trespasser, i've come to realize that it must also be a word that can simply give another word a negative connotation. so essentially it can also mean 'bad'
> 
> therefore:
> 
> ma bana'dirth venavis, hahren- stop your foul speech, elder *for this purpose, because kirin is a sassy little dick, it's more accurately translated "quit your dirty talk, old man."
> 
> yes i'm making these up. no i don't know what i'm doing BUT IT'S SO FUN I HAVE LIKE 20 MASH UP PHRASES STORED FOR LATER USE, I HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR THIS UNBEARABLE NERDNESS. THANK YOU FOR READING YOU BEAUTIFUL EGGHEADS.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lavellan hates dorian, dorian tries to pretend he doesn't notice. meanwhile important things happen in dungeons and they are just too busy in they own damn drama
> 
> trigger warning: dorian bashing (i'm sorry doribby forgive me pls! you were so bae before i got the bi solas mod i'm so so sorry TT-TT)  
> trigger warning: mild violence  
> trigger warning: asshole!lavellan is an asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: okay guys, here's to quicker updates and more solas and less angst (someday) cheers! btw i didn't edit whoops.. :l
> 
> (edit)  
> now i edited. still bound to be a few mistakes. i just need to get these done and posted before i start getting those THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH feels and then post nothing. blahh

**Chapter 9**

Kirin would have preferred anyone else. He would have lost himself in time with literally any being, aside from this arrogant, flashy, obnoxious, self-important, know-it-all magister. Sadly, the decision wasn’t left to him. Perhaps he would blame the same shemlen god that everyone credited for his own deeds, though if there were a divine being involved, he could think of only one who might cast him into such chaos and misfortune so frequently.

Dorian was shaking out his boots, complaining about water, of all things. Water on the ground. Water in his shoes. The terror. It’s not like they were separated from his forces, his friends. It’s not like they were _stuck_ in the _wrong_ time. Creator’s forbid, and Fen’Harel cast him into the void should his toes meet moisture.

He must have voiced a few of these sardonic thoughts aloud, because Dorian quickly shot off, “Easy for you to say! And my toes are the least of my concern! Do you know what water _does_ to nugskin? An atrocity you might understand if you even owned a pair of shoes!”

Kirin scowled and refused to answer such frivolous commentary. “We need to find out what’s going on,” he said instead, moving forward and splashing an unnecessary amount. If Dorian noticed the petulant deed, he pretended otherwise. “Could anyone still be alive?”

Dorian’s reply was accompanied by a rather grim expression, which ill-suited his face. “It seems unlikely that any of the Inquisition would have remained long after you and I disappeared. It’s possible that Alexius’ allies remain. We could corner and question someone.”

“Are these not prison cells?” Kirin pointed out, “It seems unlikely he’d have sent guards to monitor nobody..” He indicated the two unlucky men who happened to stumble upon them.

“You’re suggesting he might have taken some of ours captive?” Dorian asked, and Kirin’s frown deepened. He didn’t like Pavus implying fellowship in any way.

He held his tongue, but his magic was ever telling. Dorian let out a gasp as a current of electricity dropped him unceremonious onto the flooded floor. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed, in which Pavus recovered from literal shock, and Lavellan withheld the apology that leapt unbidden to his lips. So what if he hadn’t meant to? Perhaps he should have meant to.

“No need to be nasty,” Dorian chided, somehow sounding good-natured, even as he shakily got to his feet and began to ring out the ends of his robes. “We _are_ on the same side, you know.” He held his head up and cocked back slightly, as though to look down on Kirin. Perhaps it was just his natural posture, perhaps it was an intentional slight. In either case it was unnerving.

Lavellan ignored this remark, deciding to set himself in motion, and let Dorian do what he would, having realized that every moment he wasted resenting and bickering with the magister could be better spent finding a way out of here.

He found out immediately that what Dorian would do was follow in his wake and continue to prattle on about magical theory, as though Kirin would have a clue what he was talking about, after growing up teacherless, in a magickless clan. Not to mention, loud as you please, as though stealth was of the very least importance as they blindly navigated what must have been, judging by the apparent abundance of red lyrium, enemy territory.

“I can’t even be certain we’re in the future, you know!” Dorian exclaimed as they reached the first accessible stairwell leading up into the unknown, with still no sign of another being, “It’s quite possible we were sent into the distant past..”

Frustration with their lack of progress, and Pavus’ apparent disinterest in being any use at all finally annoyed Kirin into responding, with venom. He stopped dead in his tracks and pointed at the vibrant red ore growing out of the walls and ceiling, “This stuff all over your history books back home, then? Something you all forgot to share with the rest of us?”

Dorian’s excitement seemed to dim somewhat at the implication that the Imperium might be hiding yet another harmful magical discovery. The scholarly smile that mirrored Solas’ in Lavellan’s mind died on his stupid handsome face, and he felt a certain vicious joy at that.

“Point taken,” Dorian conceded, deflating and bringing a hand dramatically to his chest as though wounded. “The future it is, then.”

Lavellan didn’t revel in his cruelty for long. He turned his head toward the sound of chanting; another cell, nearly concealed beneath a veritable curtain of scarlet. A circle mage. An elf. Kirin barely recognized him, a face he’d passed in the village all those weeks ago.

He approached cautiously. The mage seemed not to see him, eyes red and blind. Mouth repeating the chant over and over. Veins flaring and pulsating with what appeared to be some kind of warped lyrium-poisoning.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian swore, now close behind Kirin and analyzing the caged mage as well, “This poor man.. How long must he have been exposed to be driven mad?”

Guilt overwhelmed Kirin without warning. Was this the fate that had befallen his allies? His _friends_?

 _Is this what happened to Solas?_ His mind provided as a perplexingly panicked afterthought. He shook it off. No one person could take priority in this situation.

“He doesn’t seem to have aged much,” the Herald pointed out. “Perhaps two or three years at most.”

“Unless this special batch prevents aging,” Dorian countered, sounding troubled, “in which case there really is no telling..”

“There’s nothing we can do for him at present,” Kirin said quietly, as though that would make either of them feel better for walking away. “We need to find the other prisoners. They wouldn’t need armed guards just for him.”

“Right,” the magister agreed reluctantly.

They ascended the stair in silence, now able to hear muffled voices from above. Dorian was now entirely cautious, staff raised. Kirin remembered the ease with which he slid into battle as they arrived, and was, for the first time, grateful for his presence. He still felt vulnerable without a larger team, but this surprisingly intrepid mage at his back was more comfort than annoyance at the moment.

 

 

He might have been intrepid, but Lavellan soon found that Dorian’s armor was not only unsuitable against the cold, but also inadequate in battle. The third time he collapsed after charging in too close to a guard with a rather spiky mace, Kirin stopped wasting energy reviving him, and sent all three warriors soaring over the rails to fall to their deaths with a quick and unforgiving mindblast.

He looked down at Pavus’ prone body and tried to justify leaving him there to fend for himself. He was a Vint, so surely that was reason enough not to care. But Kirin’s feet wouldn’t move. Then again, nor did he extend his staff to revive. Kirin remained stuck on this idiotic precipice. He might have stood there for five entire minutes trying, but he still hadn’t convinced himself to walk away when the magister began to stir. Pavus groaned inelegantly and pushed himself up onto hands and knees, causing Lavellan to reflect maliciously that it was exactly how he should stay.

He stared down his nose, much the way Dorian tended to, and offered his most unimpressed glare, arms crossed over his chest expectantly.

“No, it’s alright,” Dorian said sourly, breaking eye contact to get ahold of his weapon and only defense, “I can get up on my own, don’t worry yourself.” He levered himself off the ground using the staff and leveled a glare right back at the Herald.

“You certainly know how to get down on your own,” he said, and while the quip could in any other circumstance be considered light-hearted ribbing, it was definitely not in this case.

“Still more to dish out?” Dorian wondered with a laugh that fell flat as it upset some internal injury he hadn’t noticed before. He took a labored breath and continued. “You must know we have better things to do than trade insults right now, O Herald of Andraste.”

Dorian picked up on it then, for the first time. The untamed magical aura weaving through and around Kirin in time with his breath. It was hot and static with rage. And just like that, he lost all interest in taking the Herald down a notch.

“ _That_ ,” he began, cutting off whatever Lavellan might have opened his mouth to say in response to his earlier slight, “is fascinating! Are you doing that on purpose?”

A flush touched Kirin’s cheeks that had nothing to do with anger. The electric charge left and the surrounding magic cooled to gentle warmth. “I don’t know what you mean, shemlen. But you are right. We’re wasting time here.”

He walked past Dorian and made his way over to one of the corridors that had been blocked by the Venatori’s fighters. The magister followed after, shuffling behind with a resounding limp and breathing laboriously. If Lavellan knew how to heal without using blood magic, he would have done so already. Yet he had too much pride to admit this lack of ability and knowledge to Pavus, and so Kirin let him think Andraste’s Herald was just that cruel.

And as they descended they found that the plague of lyrium was ten times worse in this section of dungeon. The veins ran between stones as though they were the glue holding it together. They passed row upon row of cells completely filled with nothing but the pestilent ore. And then at the very end, the very furthest cell, a woman was trapped by the rock.

Initially they thought she was buried beneath it. As they drew close, the truth of it became clear.

“Grand Enchanter?” Kirin asked, unsure whether or not she lived. “Fiona?”

She turned to face him, but could only move her head.

“Herald?” she wondered, voice hoarse and echoing with her affliction. “What trickery is this?”

“No trickery,” he assured, though uncertainty tainted his words around the edges, as he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “I’m here.”

“Impossible..” she wheezed, turning her head back to face the wall as though the strain pained her. “I saw you disappear.. into the rift.”

“Can you tell us the date?” Dorian interjected, urgently. “Please, it’s important.”

The Grand Enchanter appeared to pause for thought and then breathed out, “Harvestmere. 9:42, Dragon.”

“One year..” Dorian sighed, stunned. He slumped uncharacteristically down the wall, and Kirin tried to ignore the part of his brain insisting that he should just use the blood magic to heal the man.

“How could all of this happen in a year?” he asked her, feeling a bit of shock at the drastic change. “I’m sorry, is that red lyrium _growing_ out of you?”

“The Elder One,” she started, “he murdered the empress to rise to power in the chaos, and sent his demon army wreaking havoc across Thedas. He used the red lyrium to corrupt the Templars..” here she had to stop and gather the energy to go on, “This is how he gets more; harvests from the corpses of his prisoners.”

“The Elder One?” Dorian’s tired, but tirelessly curious voice drifted to her from his place on the floor.

“We’re here for Alexius,” Kirin reminded him, not hiding his irritation.

“Alexius serves him, Herald,” she said then, turning her head to face him once more, to pin him with her weighty gaze. “He is more powerful than the Maker. None who challenge him survive.”

“A god,” Kirin offered in a disturbing monotone. “You’re telling me he’s a god?”

“He is much worse, I am afraid.”

“How in Fen’harel’s myriad of eyeballs am I supposed to take on a god?” he asked her in a voice so franticly quiet, he may as well have screamed it.

Dorian let his head rest against the stone with a heavy thud. “It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. We stick to the plan. We’ll get the amulet. We’ll go back to our time, and stop him before he can attain godhood.”

He sounded too drained to be a part of that 'we.' Guilt swarmed in tandem with that little encouraging voice in the back of Lavellan's mind, urging him to do the right thing, even though it was the very wrong thing. He finally caved with a short grunt of resignation. He knelt next to the magister and fixed him with a serious expression.

“I can’t heal you in the conventional way,” he admitted heavily, “That being said, I can only do this once here. It’s really too corrupt an environment to attempt at all, honestly.”

Dorian predictably responded with suspicion and avid interest at once. “What are you trying to say?”

“Just keep behind me from now on, because the next time you get injured, you’re on your own. Normally, I’d apologize in advance, but I’m sure you’re used to this sort of thing.”

He didn’t even see Lavellan draw the knife down his own wrist, only felt the abominably delightful prickle of the act rushing through his torso, as the warm red glow swarmed around them both. The sensation of ribs snapping back into rights was only uncomfortable because he hadn’t known they were actually broken, and aside from that, Dorian would call it a pleasant experience.

When it was done and Kirin dropped down to sit beside him, he realized exactly what this meant.

“So,” he said, turning to look at the Dalish elf, who refused to look at him in turn. “That’s quite a mountain of hypocrisy you’ve built your castle on, _Your Worship_.”

Lavellan huffed out an agitated breath, and said, “Please, elaborate, why don’t you?”

“A bloodmage,” he spat, hilarity overtaking him like a mania, “You are a _Tevinter-hating_ bloodmage.”

“I never said anything was wrong with blood magic,” Kirin told him, rubbing his temple. “But slaughtering slaves to further your own power is deplorable. I’ve never hurt anyone as long as I’ve been practicing." His mouth puckered slightly, as the lie soured at the tip of his tongue.

“Which is only true until it isn’t.”

Lavellan shook his head and stood, trying to rid himself of sudden and intense deja-vu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: don't worry kirin, he'll grow on you. (hopefully not in the red lyrium way.) berate me for updates or something! motivation is weird guys -_-


End file.
